He turned to face Sarah, hoping she could help him unscramble this puzzle. “Do you still have family in Tahlequah? Will you ask them if they’ve ever heard of Cynthia Youngwolf?”
Her eyes shifted focus. Instead of meeting his gaze, she studied her drink, her tone distant. “My family…my father doesn’t live in Tahlequah anymore. He’s in another part of Oklahoma now.”
“I see,” Adam responded, although he didn’t. All she would have to do was ask her father about a name, yet she appeared reluctant to do so. Why? he wondered. Why wouldn’t she make one simple phone call? And why had her shoulders tensed throughout portions of their conversation?
One minute he saw attraction in her eyes, the next detachment. Warm. Aloof. Gentle. Afraid. She appeared to be all of those things. And that made him want to touch her even more, reach for her hand and hold it. This woman, he thought, this dark-eyed mystery, was connected to his birthplace, a heritage he knew nothing about.
The Cherokee books he’d purchased helped, but they weren’t enough. Reading didn’t combat the loneliness. He needed more than just words on a page.
He needed human contact.
He needed Sarah.
Adam started. He needed a woman he’d just met? Was he losing his mind? The last of his sanity?
No, he thought. He wasn’t crazy. A woman born in Tahlequah, a stunning Cherokee with dark eyes and long, flowing hair. He couldn’t have dreamed her if he’d tried. Sarah was the answer he had been waiting for.
She glanced at her watch. “It was nice meeting you, Adam. But I should get back to work.”
“I’ll walk you,” he offered.
They stood on the street corner, and as she brushed his arm, a ray of hope shot through him—an awakening from one of his ancestor’s arrows. No, he wasn’t about to give up on Sarah Cloud. Somehow, some way, he would break through her defenses, unlock the mystery surrounding her. And in the process, he intended to find his biological mother. The woman who had given him life.
The next week Sarah paced one of the facial rooms, checking and rechecking her supplies. Adam Paige was her next appointment. A facial. The man had booked a facial. Not that she didn’t have other male clients. She encouraged men to take better care of their skin, yet the thought of touching Adam made her palms tingle and her pulse race.
She sanitized her hands for the tenth time, a nervous habit, she supposed. And one she’d just acquired. Checking her watch, she exhaled a shaky breath. Maybe he would fall asleep during the facial the way some of her other clients did. It would be easier touching him if he slept.
Sarah let out an anxious laugh. Mrs. Whipple snored during her procedure, but then Vivian Whipple was nearly eighty years old. Young, virile Adam Paige wouldn’t snore. And he probably wouldn’t fall asleep, either.
Quit stressing and go, she told herself. Adam was probably early, waiting in the reception area for her to greet him.
Sure enough, he was there. As Sarah approached, he stood. Today he wore tan trousers and a matching shirt. Although he looked more stylish than he had the week before, he still exhibited the same rugged appeal. Both the makeup artist and her client checked him out from their vantage point. And, of course, Tina watched with a dreamy smile, probably thinking Sarah was the luckiest girl in L.A.
Yeah, right. More like the most nervous.
“Hi, Adam,” Sarah said, reminding herself it was just a facial—a procedure she had done a thousand times before. “Are you ready?”
“Sure. Lead the way.”
She showed him where her treatment room was, then took him to an empty dressing room. “Just remove your shirt and put this on.” She handed him a kimono-style robe that belted in front, her friendly, professional voice intact. “And when you’re ready, come to the facial room.” Pointing to a rack of hangers, she added, “We encourage clients to keep their belongings with them, so be sure to bring your shirt along.”
“Okay.” He flashed that devastating smile, and she proceeded down the hall, taking a deep, I’ll-get-through-this breath. Men might be low on her list of priorities, but this one made her tingly and weak-kneed, sensations she would prefer to do without.
Sarah waited by the treatment chair, resisting the urge to cleanse her hands again. She couldn’t wash away her nervousness no matter how hard she tried. Touching Adam was inevitable, and dousing herself with an instant sanitizer wasn’t going to help.
When footsteps sounded, she looked up. Adam entered the room, shirt in hand. She took it from him and hung it on a nearby hook. He wore the aqua robe she had given him, and although it was a simple garment, the pale color emphasized every striking feature. She decided his biological parents must have been beautiful, their genes creating a mixed-blood masterpiece.
“Have you ever had a facial before?” she asked.
He smiled again, his teeth white and straight. “No, but I’m looking forward to it.”
“Have a seat, and I’ll explain the procedure,” she said, struggling to focus on her job. She hadn’t been this anxious since her state board exam. This jittery inside. How much physical perfection could one man inherit?
He sat on the facial bed, his presence filling the small room. Sarah closed the door, knowing she had to. A relaxed setting enhanced the treatment.
Once she briefed him, he reclined and she draped him with a coverlet. He had chosen to keep the room quiet rather than listen to a CD from Sarah’s collection. She had a variety of soft music as well as sounds from nature. She would have preferred to have a CD playing. The silence only made her more aware of her nervousness.
“I’m going to cover your hair,” she told him, slipping her hands behind his neck. His hair, banded into a ponytail, felt smooth and thick. Healthy, she thought. Everything about Adam boasted strength.
After analyzing and cleansing his skin, she began the massage. She knew all the clinical benefits of a facial massage, yet when her fingers connected with his skin, she forgot each and every one.
She could have been a woman stroking her lover. A woman exploring his face, the chiseled angles and rawboned sensuality.
Each manipulation felt erotic. Rolling movements, circular friction. She touched his forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. She allowed her fingers to roam his face, the pressure light but firm, slow yet rhythmic.
Heat against heat, Sarah thought. Flesh against flesh. Adam kept his eyes closed, but he didn’t sleep. Instead he moaned his pleasure—a low, masculine sound.
When she accidentally brushed his lips, he wet them afterward. She swallowed and moved down his chin, his neck.
Mesmerized, she became aware of every breath he took, every muscle that twitched, the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelids.
He made another low sound and shifted his weight, causing the coverlet to slip. The V on his robe gaped. Sarah was tempted to slide her hands inside, massage his chest, his nipples.
Catching her breath, she chastised herself. She had to end this now. What kind of esthetician
